"You've done it! man--you've done it! It's all there; every rotten,
stinking shred of it! Wow! but it's good--so damned good that it's almost
inhuman. I knew you had it in you. I knew it was in you, all the time--if
only you could come alive. God, man! if _that_ could only be exhibited
alongside the other! Look here!"
He dragged the easel that held Sibyl Andres' portrait to a place beside
the one upon which the canvas just finished rested, and drew back the
curtain. The effect was startling.
"'The Spirit of Nature' and 'The Spirit of the Age'," said Conrad
Lagrange, in a low tone.
"But you're ruined, my boy," he added gleefully. "You're ruined. These
canvases will never be exhibited Her own, she'll smash when she sees it;
and you'll be artistically damned by the very gods she has invoked to
bless you with fame and wealth. Lord, but I envy you! You have your chance
now--a real chance to be worthy your mother's sacrifice.
"Come on, let's get ready for the feast."
Chapter XXIX
The Hand Writing on the Wall
It was November. Nearly a year had passed since that day when the young
man on the Golden State Limited--with the inheritance he had received from
his mother's dying lips, and with his solemn promise to her still fresh in
his mind--looked into the eyes of the woman on the platform of the
observation car.
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